


Frendship with Benefits, Love with Consequences

by HitanTenshi



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Developing Relationship, M/M, lemon-lime on the citrus scale i think, soft smut?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 04:44:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18004058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HitanTenshi/pseuds/HitanTenshi
Summary: Barely into his new relationship with Zevran, Elrohir doubts his ability to measure up to Zevran's expectations — or, in some sense, his lack of expectations. Leliana does her best to walk him through his fears and talk some sense into him. Little does Elrohir realize that, from the other side of the situation, Zevran is already much more deeply invested in their relationship than either of them would have expected.





	Frendship with Benefits, Love with Consequences

**Author's Note:**

> some zevrana angsty fluff? I am a sucker for them, especially since they were my first dragon age ship. this was sitting in my google drive for a while, but it's as finished as it's going to get. there are some hc for my surana and for the zevrana ship in here, but they should get explained in context. enjoy!

“Should you be sitting outside the edge of camp like this?”

Elrohir startles at the voice and looks up, half expecting to be chided, but the bard’s question is softened by her smile.

“Who knows what lurks in the bushes, no?” she adds for dramatic affect.

Hulk announces his presence from Elrohir’s other side with a loud bark, as if to say he can certainly protect his master from any bush varmint that may appear.

“Ah, I needn’t have worried,” Leliana plays along with the oversized puppy. But then her attention turns back to Elrohir and she crouches down, tucking the folds of her tunic under her knees.

“Really, though, are you troubled? You’ve been especially quiet lately.”

That demonstrates her powers of observation, because Elrohir is always more quiet than most, only speaking when he feels he can’t get around it. With time away from the Circle, the necessity for silence, for carefully guarding every word, has loosened its hold some, but the smallest things seem able to revive its power to cut off his voice. Thankfully, of his traveling companions, Leliana is one intent on encouraging him to share his thoughts. (Compared to Sten, whose mere glance tends to encourage Elrohir to find some excuse to stand silent on the other side of camp.) He feels… safe with Leliana.

“Shall I help with a guessing game?” she continues. “You need only nod or shake your head, if you don’t feel like answering with words.”

Cautious, Elrohir nods.

“Splendid! Let’s see… Did you have a bad dream? I know Alistair mentioned that is part of the burden the Grey Wardens bear.”

Elrohir shakes his head.

“Is it something else to do with the Blight? Worrying about the responsibility of leadership? Or perhaps about returning to the Circle to enlist their aid?”

Elrohir shrugs, because that is certainly something that populates the free corners of his fretful mind (especially the lattermost point, which could paralyze him if he let it), but then he shakes his head, because it is not the principal reason for his current isolation.

Leliana taps a finger to her chin, then glances behind them to the light of their campfires.

“Did you have a quarrel with someone? Did Sten scare you again?”

More denials, though the first is momentarily hesitant.

“So… not a _quarrel_ , but it is something having to do with one of our companions?”

Elrohir bites his lip and nods.

“It’s not something _I’ve_ done, is it?”

He quickly shakes his head and even manages to murmur, “Y-You’re all right.”

“Ah, some words! This is good progress. Shall I proceed by process of elimination, then? Did Alistair do something?”

“No.”

“Morrigan?”

“No.”

“Well, if Ser Hulk and myself are exempt, and Sten is also innocent this once, then…” Her bright eyes give away that she’s already deduced the culprit before finishing her sentence, “that only leaves one person. What did he do?”

Elrohir opens his mouth, then closes it again and pulls his legs closer to himself.

“I know he’s been flirting your way most intently. You have not appeared to dislike his attentions — am I mistaken?”

Elrohir shakes his head.

“Has he not stopped with flirting?” And here an unexpected edge enters Leliana’s voice. “Has he done something untoward? Something forceful? If he has hurt you, be it unladylike or not I will put a blade somewhere even Andraste’s light does not shine.”

The application of holy phrasing actually makes Elrohir laugh, albeit in a brief snort. Perhaps it is the humor that dislodges the blockage in his throat, or perhaps it is the need not to bring unearned pain upon a dear companion.

“H-He didn’t force.”

Only after speaking does he realize what he’s just implied, and embarrassment floods his face.

“Oh,” but Leliana does not sound judgmental, and for that Elrohir is immensely grateful. “I suppose he does have a sort of charm. So then… is something about this development troubling you? Do you regret… accepting his offer?”

It takes several attempts, but Elrohir replies, “No… but… he might.”

Righteous protectiveness flares once again in Leliana’s face. “What is this? He would throw himself at you and then lose interest once he has claimed his prize? Unscrupulous! I should maim him in front as well as behind.”

Elrohir waves his arms frantically to stop her from standing then and there in preparation to castrate their Antivan comrade. As usual, he hadn’t expressed his full thought just now and the miscommunication may get out of hand at this rate. It seems he really will have to talk in earnest.

“It’s not… H-He hasn’t…” He struggles with a few breaths as he pulls on her sleeve to keep her here. “Zevran has only been kind to me.”

With a knit brow, Leliana returns to her grassy seat and folds her hands in her lap, waiting for him to continue.

“A-After, we… talked some. I’ve never… I’d never… This… He…” His face feels aflame, and a shame rooted in condescending eyes and sharpened swords lowers his voice to barely a whisper. “Zevran is the first. The first… everything. I’ve never… thought about someone like this before. But… I know I’m far from Zevran’s first. As we… we talked, he told me about his… preferences. He has what he calls an open mind, s-so all sorts of people catch his interest. He admitted that it…it doesn’t take much. Easy come, easy go…”

Leliana seems still to be considering castration, if the tight line of her lip is any indication, so Elrohir battles on. “I d-don’t think he meant anything by it except to tell me what he likes, because he went on to c-compliment me at length and th-then he asked me what _I_ like, but I… I could only say that I liked _him_. A-And he was kind — he smiled and s-said he was very flattered and then he k-kissed me and…” He has to hide his face in his hands at this point. “I don’t think he understands how… how very much I like him. How… How it hurts to catch him flirting at Morrigan or at you. At every pretty girl in every place we visit.”

“Oh, my dear.” And Leliana’s voice has softened now, her hand come to rest on Elrohir’s back. “You don’t just _like_ him, do you.”

Elrohir shakes his head, understanding her meaning but terrified of saying it aloud.

“You have to tell him.”

“I can’t!”

It’s all but a shriek, startling Hulk up onto all fours. The mabari senses his master’s distress and whines, nuzzling his large head under Elrohir’s arm and settling back down close by in an attempt to comfort him. Elrohir takes the opportunity to hide his face in the folds of peach fuzz along the back of Hulk’s neck as he wraps his arms around the great war dog.

“I can’t,” he repeats, much more quietly this time, because all the old gods forbid that sharp assassin ears may have heard his outcry. “He… He likes me and wants to… wants us to have fun, but that’s all. If I… If I were to p-push for what I feel… He’d pull away, wouldn’t he?”

“I do not know,” Leliana replies honestly. “I don’t know him well enough to speak on his behalf.”

“And he p-probably likes women better when it comes down to it, so I’ve got even less of a chance, right? What does he _gain_ from me but fun? Nothing.”

“Now that’s just putting yourself down, and I won’t stand for that. You are a lovely person, my dear, and if Zevran cannot see that, then he is as blind a fool as a crow circling over a field of carrion and not even bothering to look down.”

She really does have ways to make Elrohir laugh, despite himself. He lifts his face, but sombers quickly, for these thoughts have weighed on him greatly ever since that first night he had worked up the courage to accept Zevran’s invitation.

“Do you think… there’s any hope he might… change his mind about what he wants from this? From me?”

“As I said before, I do not have a clear window into his mind. But I will say that I believe you will regret it more if you pull away from him before getting your answer to that question than if you ask and get an answer that isn’t the one you had hoped for. They do say it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

“Do they?” He has never heard of such a phrase, for there had been so little talk of such frivolities as love at the Circle, surrounded by chantry and templars and tranquil. Perhaps that is part of why he had helped Jowan escape. Perhaps he had been jealous how, despite the Circle’s stifling, Jowan had dared to defy them for the sake of love.

“That said, my offer to inflict considerable harm upon him should he hurt you still remains. I intend to watch that scoundrel _carefully_.”

“He isn’t… necessarily a scoundrel.”

“Then he is a buffoon at least, if he cannot discern the nature of your affections for him and act with appropriate consideration.”

She glances back toward camp again and tuts. “Speak of a spirit and it appears. He’s looking this way.”

Elrohir stiffens.

“And now he’s walking this way. Do you want me to shoo him off?”

He shakes his head.

“Do you want me to stay so you don’t have to be alone with him?”

“I’m… I’ll be all right.”

She studies him a moment longer before standing. “If you’re sure, my dear. Come now, Ser Hulk, let’s go back to by the fire, no? I found a large bone by the roadside earlier today that may interest you.”

The word ‘bone’ triggers a reaction from the mabari — he hops onto his strong legs with a cadence of happy barks, forcing Elrohir to release him quickly or else get pulled along. Hulk bounds after Leliana, following her away from Elrohir’s secluded spot, and as the two pass Zevran, Elrohir hears Leliana exchange brief pleasantries with him, giving away nothing of the knowledge confided in her. She really is a wonderful friend.

Elrohir does not turn, but waits until Zevran sidles up to him and takes Leliana’s discarded seat, albeit much closer to Elrohir’s side.

“Are we stargazing?” he opens, but even that small snippet of his melodic voice is enough to make Elrohir’s heart beat faster.

“I… don’t know much about stars.”

“Nor do I, truth be told, except how to discern direction in the dark. If I recall…” He holds up a couple of fingers, tracing them along imaginary shapes in the sky.

“Right there is the northernmost star,” he continues. “No matter the time of year, it maintains a fixed point due north. Here,” and he wraps his arm around Elrohir to guide his sightline better, “can you spot it?”

Elrohir nods. Zevran does not remove his arm, and Elrohir begins to suspect that the talk of stars had just been an excuse to give Zevran an opening for contact, the smooth rascal.

“You’ll get cold out here. It’s not good for your health.” With only the slightest shift, their bodies are pressed together, Zevran’s breath on Elrohir’s neck. “Would you like some help keeping warm?”

Even though Elrohir is the mage, Zevran’s words have the power to charm him with ease.

“I-If you’re not busy.”

“Oh, starling,” and Zevran kisses his neck, “for you, I am never busy.”

It would be so easy to read into such statements something that is not there, that cannot be there because Zevran is a trained assassin who has left all thoughts of _love_ behind in favor of simple _pleasure_ where he can find it. Elrohir feels dreadfully selfish to wish for what cannot be.

“T-Tent.”

Zevran chuckles. “You do not wish to be seen making love under the stars?”

It wouldn’t be making love, though. Making love _requires_ love, and of a mutual nature. Zevran is just playing, as he is wont. And yet Elrohir cannot bring himself to cut the game short. Really, so selfish.

“Cold out here,” he therefore answers in excuse, echoing Zevran’s own observation.

“Ah, what is a little chill next to the fires of passion, mm?” But he draws back all the same and offers his arm to Elrohir, who takes it in silence.

Elrohir is dead certain that Leliana is hiding somewhere, watching them, all the way to Elrohir’s tent.

As soon as the flap has fallen closed behind them, Zevran moves in, fingers at the clasp of Elrohir’s cloak. “I wish to ravish you,” he purrs, his hands following the shapes of slight shoulders as he persuades the cloak to fall away.

Elrohir can find no way to answer such a bold declaration save to kiss him. Zevran answers with easily twice the enthusiasm, and within moments, Elrohir is gasping, his knees weak.

“So responsive,” Zevran praises him, tucking loose dark hair behind his ears. “You are so beautiful when you blush like this.”

As Zevran guides them to the bedroll and continues undressing Elrohir, his lips move down neck and collarbone and chest, kissing new patches of skin as he reveals them. Elrohir knows little else to do at this stage but to let Zevran have his fun, but it is a pleasant thing to be adored so. Zevran is the only person who has ever adored him. Maybe that’s part of why Elrohir has fallen for him. Fallen so fast and hard that, when he must reach the inevitable, unforgiving stop at the bottom, he doesn’t know how he’ll survive.

The skin at his brow itches, as it often does when his nerves fray, but he’s barely been scratching the spot for two seconds before quick hands pull his own away from his face.

“None of that,” and Zevran kisses each knuckle on each hand. “Please do not mar such a lovely visage.”

Considering the number of existing scratches and scabs that map Elrohir’s face, albeit mostly concealed by elaborate tattoos, Elrohir has trouble hearing Zevran’s compliment. He isn’t _lovely_ by anyone’s standards, surely. _Tolerable_ , perhaps, enough for Zevran to pretend.

“Are you here, starling?” Zevran’s voice is low and soft as he leans close. “Your eyes are not with me.”

Elrohir opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“If you are not up to this,” Zevran presses, changing his position from one above to one less sensual beside, “there is no fault in such things. I would never wish for you to feel obligated.”

Who is it truly feeling obligated, Elrohir wonders. Is this really just fun, or is that a ruse to cover Zevran’s idea of repayment for sparing his life? He had, after all, spent his childhood in an environment where pleasure had been bought and sold. It wouldn’t be so strange if he were to employ that tactic from time to time, given the sorts of stories he’s begun to share of his time among the Crows.

“Where are you, hmm? Maker, do not say I have given you some cause for alarm. You are safe with me, starling.”

But he isn’t. That’s the problem, isn’t it? Elrohir’s heart is exposed before Zevran, all but begging the assassin to strike some deadly blow.

The silence feels so long, though it may only be seconds, before Elrohir can find scraps of his voice. “S-Sorry. It’s not you. It’s… my problem. I’m sorry.”

Zevran kisses his temple and squeezes his hands with reassurance. “As I said, there is no shame in the moment slipping away. I would never force you. There is always another time.”

Always another time — but is there? Won’t Zevran grow tired of him and seek pleasure from some other, some pretty girl who doesn’t have scars or taints or the curse of magic? And Elrohir will have to watch what he can’t have unfold in front of him, watch Zevran be happy, _happier_ , with someone else?

“Oh, starling.”

The concern in that sweet voice triggers a realization: Elrohir’s face is damp. Out of defensive instinct, he pulls his hands out of Zevran’s grasp, covers his face, and rolls toward the side opposite. He can’t show weakness like this. Emotional weakness is vulnerability. Spirits take advantage. Demons go for the vulnerable first. Showing weakness draws attention. The people who show weakness are called in by the templars and never seen again. They’ll come for him if he isn’t careful. He has to contain it. He has to hide how he feels. He has to stop!

Zevran’s hand rests gently on his shoulder. “Please, tell me what’s wrong.”

What’s wrong is that Elrohir is hopelessly in love with this man who is so kind and yet so, so cruel. But maybe it is Elrohir who is cruel, to use what should be fun and games to bind up his empty heart, to wish that someone in the world could maybe, just maybe, love him.

“I’m sorry.” His voice quivers as he fights the urge to cry in earnest. Don’t show emotion. Don’t show weakness. He must look so pathetic right now — so undesirable. This will only hasten the day when Zevran tires of him, won’t it? “I’m sorry. I can’t. I sh-shouldn’t. I’m sorry.”

Arms wrap around him, enveloping him in Zevran’s rich, close scent of frankincense and cedar.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. It’s all right. You don’t have to hold back. You should let it out. You’ll feel better afterward.”

“C-Can’t. It’s not s-safe.”

“It is safe here. You are safe with me. I won’t let anyone hurt you. You aren’t in the Circle. You’re free. You’re safe. They won’t take you back there. I would never let them put you back in that cage. You’re here with me.”

“Are… Are _you_ here? With me?”

It may seem like a senseless question, but Zevran understands, because he kisses Elrohir’s temple again and replies:

“Where else would I be?”

Perhaps Zevran’s intentional kindness outweighs his unintentional cruelty. It may be foolish and futile of Elrohir to hope, to pray to whichever gods may be listening, plead that he’ll never ask for anything else in his life but this one precious thing, but here he is regardless, his heart screaming in his chest, begging for this one thing, this one chance.

As if blessed with a moment of divine insight, Zevran cups his face and says, as solemn as Elrohir has ever heard him, “You deserve the opportunity to be happy as much as anyone else.”

That breaks him. He turns, buries his face in the crook of Zevran’s neck, and cries. It’s words like those, acts like those, that had doomed him. He’d never stood a chance against the power of such truths that should be so simple, and yet had been denied him all his life. In their place had been truths like: mages aren’t like everyone else; mages are dangerous from the moment they enter this world to the moment they leave it, and the sooner they leave it the better; mages are threats to watch, to tag and train only to throw them to their deaths for the sake of their betters. How could he not love the lips that say such kind things to him in comparison, that pry open the bars of his gilded cage and offer him the skies?

In a secret pocket of his heart, Elrohir is very glad that Zevran had picked a bird as a pet name to describe him. Somehow, that gives him hope that perhaps, someday, they might be able to fly together.

Zevran holds him as his sobs, strokes the back of his head, whispers sweet things to him in his melodic mother tongue. Even if Zevran does not return the extent of Elrohir’s affections, he is still far kinder, far more loving, than anyone in Elrohir’s life has even been. So rather than bemoan what may elude him forever, he should focus instead on all of the good that he can have, all the wonderful things Zevran does give him. That concept is a comfort, and it helps to calm him alongside Zevran’s whispers.

“G… Gods, I’m sorry…” he mumbles at last, when his eyes have finally run dry.

“Hush, you have done nothing wrong. Even I had times, during my training, when I could not contain what I felt. I remember what it’s like. Hiding in some corner and hoping nobody sees. It’s awful.”

“You aren’t… put off?”

Zevran actually pinches his cheek for that. “I don’t recall saying you must change something about yourself before I would fancy you. No, no, you are fine just as you are, starling, scars and tears and all. If anything, seeing you able to let go a little is a relief.”

“But this… we’re supposed to have fun.”

“But it won’t be fun for either of us if you’re miserable inside. Sometimes you must expel some sadness before you can truly enjoy yourself. Now, do you feel better after a good cry?”

Elrohir takes a moment to assess himself. The tightness in his chest has, as it so happens, lessened. So he nods.

“Then that is all that matters.” A pause. “Would you prefer just to sleep now? A good cry, a good rest, and you’ll feel refreshed on the morrow. As I said before, there is always another time for fun when you are feeling better.”

Zevran has actually sat up in preparation to return to his own tent when Elrohir grabs his wrist.

“Please don’t go.”

Zevran’s eyes widen slightly, and Elrohir has a moment of panic. Has he been too forceful? Has Zevran seen right through him? Is everything spoiled now? But then the moment passes, banished as a soft smile forms on Zevran’s face.

“Spending the night? You spoil me so, my sweet.” As he finally begins to shed his own clothing, though, he pauses. “I do have one condition, if I may.”

“Wh-Which is?”

“I should like to kiss you awake in the morning.”

That, of course, turns Elrohir pink from forehead to navel. The stormcloud of doubt that had hung low in his mind parts, evaporated by the sunlight of Zevran’s smile.

“Y… You may… if you like.”

“ _Maravilloso_. May I also kiss you now?”

“I-If you like.”

“ _Creador, soy bendecido_. I should like that very much.”

Zevran proceeds to kiss away all traces of tears from Elrohir’s face, his touches more protective than anything else, but they are a comfort. As they ease back into each other’s space, Elrohir finds the thought of a little fun less frightening now. He says as much, and Zevran’s smile glows in the low lamplight.

Even if, by technicality, Zevran is surely not making love to him, the feeling poured into each caress could easily fool. Elrohir pushes away the condemning thoughts that call him selfish for pretending and clings instead to the heady happiness that fills him, clings to it as tightly as he does to Zevran. The only tears he sheds now are those coaxed out of him by Zevran’s skilled hands.

It seems too much effort to put any of their clothes back on afterward, so in the end, Zevran just wraps Elrohir’s smaller form in his and pulls the blankets over them.

“Sleep well, _mi amor_.”

Someday, Elrohir is going to have to ask Zevran what such Antivan phrases mean.

+.+.+

“Oi, Leliana. Have you seen the assassin around this morning?”

“Not this morning, no. Why do you ask?”

“Well he’s on breakfast duty, but I can’t find hide or hair of him. Morrigan got so tired of waiting for food that she went hunting. You don’t think the assassin’s run off or some rubbish, do you? Blood oath, my arse.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s around here somewhere. Where haven’t you looked?”

“I’m telling you, I’ve searched the whole camp. Everywhere except…”

“Except?”

“Well… but there’s no way… He’d have no reason to be… Oh, Maker’s breath, now I have to look, don’t I?”

“Whatever are you talking about, Alistair? You don’t _have_ to look. I’m sure if you wait a bit, he’ll turn up.”

Perhaps he should hear the warning in Leliana’s voice. Perhaps he should act on it. But it’s far more pleasant to remain here, on the edges of wakefulness, holding his favorite person in his arms.

Which is why, when Alistair all but rips open the flap of Elrohir’s tent, Zevran’s instincts kick in before the rest of his brain. Always keep a blade close to your pillow, he had been taught. Always be ready to fend off an attempt on your life. So poor, foolish Alistair only makes it half a step before a dagger nearly takes his head off, lodging itself into a tent pole instead.

“What the—!? Leliana, did you see that!? He just tried to kill me!”

“In his defense, Alistair, if you stomped into _my_ tent unannounced, I would not vouch for your safety either.”

“But it’s not _your_ tent! It’s not even _his_ tent! It’s _Elrohir’s_ tent! Zevran, what in Andraste’s name are you doing in Elrohir’s tent!?”

By this point, Zevran is wide awake. As is Elrohir. The poor boy looks like he may expire on the spot, so stunned is he to be caught like this. To Zevran, however, this scenario is old news, and he plays it off with ease.

“I _was_ sleeping, my esteemed ser. Now, I am simply lounging.”

“I can see that — I’ve got eyes, man! I’m asking why you were sleeping in Elrohir’s tent!”

“Oh dear.” Leliana’s hand appears and grabs the collar of Alistair’s armor padding. “Alistair, my friend, I fear you and I may need to have a discussion about the big, wide adult world.”

“The what? But he—! Oi, don’t—!” But Leliana is already hauling him away.

Finally able to relax, Zevran sighs. “That is a good woman. Sharp mind and fine eyes.”

Elrohir, still under the blankets, stiffens beside him. He looks… disheartened? Ah, it is so easy to say the wrong thing, isn’t it.

“Your eyes are no less fine, starling. Fear not, the good lady has considerable resilience to my charms.”

“Wh… Who said I was afraid?”

“You don’t seem very eager to share me.”

Elrohir’s mouth hangs open. Had the boy thought he had been subtle with his despondent downturns every time Zevran had tested his persuasive skills on a stranger or even on another member of their merry band? Maker bless him.

“And there is nothing wrong with such thoughts. I am a fine catch, no? And your first experience besides. It’s only natural. So, hear it from me: the words I give to others are words only. I would seek your explicit permission before, as the phrase goes, sowing wild oats.”

“You don’t… think I’m clingy?”

“Heavens, no! You’re adorable, and you honor me by your fondness for my company. I told you, I wish for both of us to enjoy ourselves. If my exercising more… _restraint_ will aid that, then please, you need only say the word.”

“…Saying the word can take a lot sometimes.”

“I do not deny that. But, starling, listen well: there is nothing you could say that would cause me to think less of you.”

There is, of course, only the tiniest of lies in that statement. For there is one thing, only one thing, that Elrohir _could_ say to shatter the trust they have formed. And that would be to say that all of it had meant nothing to him, that Zevran had meant nothing. Why exactly this would wound him so fatally when he has easily heard it from many in the past — that is an issue Zevran does not wish to confront. Far better to bury it, as he had been trained, and laugh and flirt instead.

At least, with Elrohir, the threat is minimal, for the boy is far too gentle-natured to speak so heartlessly.

“Now, since Ser Alistair has robbed me of the opportunity to kiss you awake, may I make up for it by kissing you good morning?”

Elrohir blushes like a ripe raspberry, but nods.

Zevran peels the blankets down and graces his eyes with a lovely image. One similar to that which had first sparked his imagination to pick a poetic petname: Elrohir’s dark hair, spread over his pillow like wings. But a common blackbird would not do justice to the way the sight robs Zevran of breath. Yes, a starling truly is best, for on their first night, Elrohir had been so overcome, bless him, that little sparks of magical energy had run up and down his skin, casting light across his hair and evoking the illusion of stars in a night sky. Zevran is always most pleased with his efforts when he can make control slip from Elrohir’s grasp in that way. The sweet boy should not have to live in fear of every demonstration of his magical gift. It should be allowed to flow in and out like breath, whatever the Chantry says. Their oppression had nearly destroyed this masterpiece.

“A… Are you going to kiss me, or just stare?”

Oh, so he is a cheeky boy this morning. How rare and precious.

“Impatient, are we?” Zevran teases, but then makes good on his request. “Good morning, starling. _Te adoro come ningún otro_.”

Maybe someday he won’t conceal his bursts of dangerous affection in his mother tongue. Can he be blamed for clinging to that veil? The last person he had dared to consider _love_ for had ended up dead at his feet, her blood on his conscience. The tragedy that had put him on the Grey Warden assignment in the first place, that had prompted him to choose this place to die. Yet here he is, very much alive. Living more than he has in months, years really, with these fair eyes fixed on him and filling his being with a warmth he really shouldn’t foster.

“If you’re t-teasing me when you speak Antivan like that, I’ll b-be very cross.”

Zevran lets out merry laugh and kisses Elrohir again. “Nothing of the sort, _mi tesoro_. Sometimes I just cannot form my thoughts best in this grubby Fereldan tongue, no?”

“Whose language is grubby, you inked peacock?” Alistair’s voice breaks in from the other side of the tent flap.

“Oh no, the narrow-minded virgin has returned.”

“I’ll fight you, I will! But maybe if you get your pompous arse out here to make breakfast, my wrath can be assuaged.”

“If you’re asking me to leave the tent this instant, Ser Alistair, you will indeed see my pompous arse, probably more so than you would like. Unless Lady Leliana’s education has now made you curious?”

A blustering sputter is Alistair’s response to that jibe.

Using that opportunity, Zevran dots Elrohir’s face with a few more kisses before he sits up proper. “Alas, _mi amor_ , I must do my duty, for fear of life and limb.”

Elrohir actually giggles at his dramatics, which has Zevran’s heart doing flips.

“I… I like your cooking, though,” Elrohir points out. “Much more than Alistair’s.”

“I am confident that any sausage I would prepare would be superior to his,” Zevran agrees with a wink, turning Elrohir pink again.

“Maker’s breath, will you stop flirting in there and get on?”

“I’d much prefer to get off.”

“You’re impossible! This is why we can’t be friends, you and me.”

“We can’t?” Zevran fakes an affronted sound as he pulls on his tunic. “What a dreadful shame.”

“Yeah, _really_ dreadful.”

Zevran exits the tent in a flourish. “And here I even took the time to be decently dressed so as not to scar your cloistered mind. You could show some appreciation, my esteemed templar friend.”

“Didn’t I just get done saying we aren’t friends?”

“Well, yes, but I never agreed to those terms. It is my policy to treat everyone as my friend who is not explicitly my enemy. Perhaps you should try it?”

“Why do I get the feeling that’s just a policy to worm your way into more beds?”

Zevran gasps, a hand to his chest. “You wound me, Ser Alistair.”

“I’m sure you’ll get over it.”

“You are all so noisy,” Sten grumbles from the other side of the campfire. “Antivan, you know the young templar will only jump at your barbs. Antagonizing him is lowering yourself.”

“ _Lowering_ himself?” Alistair gawks.

“You are true, my wise Qunari friend, but it’s just so much fun, how can I resist?”

“Self-restraint,” says Sten.

“Hmm? I have never met a woman by that name. Perhaps you could introduce me?”

“Riddle-talker. We hunger, so carry your weight.”

“Yes, yes…”

Just as Zevran approaches the small pile of cookery, Leliana steps beside him.

“Just so you know, Zevran,” she whispers, “I learned a great deal in Orlais.”

“I do not doubt it. Orlesian culture is overflowing. Is there something you seek to imply?”

She offers him a wry little smile. “I know enough Antivan to suspect that I needn’t be as worried as I was before about the status of your relationship with our mutual friend.”

Zevran doesn’t blush, but it’s a close thing. “You have sharp ears, my good lady.”

“I know. I also have tight lips — it’s your business to share how you feel when you’re ready.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The lie tastes sour in his mouth.

“Of course you don’t,” she answers, obviously pretending to go along with his charade. “But, one way or another, you’ll figure it out eventually.”

“As always, you are a maiden of mystery.”

“One tries. Well, I’ll leave you to breakfast.” But before she moves away, she stops to add, “Oh, and Zevran? If you do hurt Elrohir, not even the crows, figurative or literal, will find your body.”

Zevran would rather spill his own entrails than hurt Elrohir, but he daren’t voice such a vulnerable thought. “As curious as I am as to how you would achieve such a feat, you needn’t fear, my good lady. Our mutual friend is quite safe with me.”

Though the reverse is not necessarily true, for when Elrohir finally emerges from his tent, tousled and flushed and delectably handsome, Zevran has to consider the possibility that this boy may very well be the death of him.


End file.
